


Thaw

by crookedmouth



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captive!Yue, Character Study, F/M, Forced Relationship, Hidden Depths, May/December Relationship, Older Man/Younger Woman, Political Alliances, Power Dynamics, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Zhayu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedmouth/pseuds/crookedmouth
Summary: Princess Yue gives her life for the moon spirit in a different way.Admiral Zhao returns to the Fire Nation a conqueror, and reluctantly engaged.Push and pull. That has been the nature of their relationship for all time.
Relationships: Yue/Zhao (Avatar)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 41
Collections: Captive AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Really only about 10% of what you find here is my own, the rest I give all credit where it is due, inspired by [ainefelai's](https://ainefelai.tumblr.com/) incredible captive!Yue and captive!Zhao AUs.

It is, quite possibly, the most difficult decision of Sokka’s life.

He is supposed to protect her, has been charged with keeping her safe during the siege, but he cannot let Katara go alone in search of Aang. It is blizzarding out upon the tundra, and there are Fire Nation soldiers everywhere, and even during a full moon he knows that Zuko will be formidable when found.

But Yue will not come with them.

“I would just be in the way,” she says to him, her voice resigned but free of self-pity. “Just one more thing for you to worry about.”

Sokka opens his mouth to protest, but Yue grips him by the shoulders and gives him a reassuring smile.

“The Spirit Oasis is the safest place I can be right now, other than with you,” she soothes. “Besides, I owe the Moon Spirit my life. If anyone should stay here, it’s me.”

Yue tells him of her birth – her illness and weakness, how she was born uncrying and with eyes closed, as though asleep – and of her parents’ desperation. How Chief Arnook begged and pleaded with the spirits not to take his daughter from him, and how, for his reverent humility, he received a vision instructing him to place the infant in the blessed pool.

“My dark hair turned white. I opened my eyes and began to cry, and they knew I would live. That’s why my mother named me Yue – for the Moon.” 

Sokka knows there is something else in her words, a message not-quite spoken and which he is simply too dull to decipher. He furrows his brows, dark almost-understanding hanging over him like a cloud.

“But – ” he begins, and then Yue’s bare hands have moved from his shoulders to cup either side of his face. She kisses him, the tip of her nose cold against his cheek. He reaches up, anchoring one of his own hands against her ear, and kisses her back. Something sad twists in his stomach, the hissing suggestion that he may never get another chance to taste her lips, but it only makes him frightfully gentle, tentative. 

Yue moves her mouth against his, a faint sucking sensation against his bottom lip, and then she pulls away. They draw back their hands almost at the same time, and she reaches up to give his own one last comforting squeeze. He realizes that he is being dismissed, in some way, and his heart breaks. From behind him, Katara lets out a quiet, self-conscious cough.

“Go,” Yue instructs him, her voice thick, “find Aang. The Avatar is the last hope for my people.”

Sokka sets his mouth in a determined line and nods his head, turning away and towards his sister before his legs become too stubborn and root him to the grass of the Spirit Oasis. He tells himself that Zuko can’t have made it that far, that they might only be gone for a few moments. The small, hopeful part of him too accustomed to bargaining decides that maybe bringing Aang back will prove a more meaningful form of protection than simply acting as a bodyguard to the princess. After all, what can he do, really? He is barely a man, armed with a boomerang and a club and a jawblade that he has mostly taught himself to use. Aang is the Avatar, his sister a powerful bender trained by a master. Though he would willingly die for her, Yue is safer with his companions than she is with him. Even the protection of the spirits may be better than what he can offer.

So he lets her stay, lets her convince him to abandon his promise to her father.

Katara waves to Yue once she is secure in Appa’s saddle, promising that they will return as soon as they can. Yue returns the gesture, exuding more confidence than Sokka thinks should be possible to feel when her city – her home – is under attack. Watching her wear this mask of bravery, this dutifully appeasing smile, makes his tongue taste bitter. It is too familiar.

He _yip-yips_ and then Appa is rising in the air.

“Goodbye, Sokka!” she calls to him from below, watching as the large silhouette of the flying bison grows smaller and smaller against the brilliance of the moon. Then they are gone, her friends and defenders, and Yue knows a chill unlike anything the North Pole has ever produced.

She stares down at the undulating forms of Tui and La, their constant circling in the small pool a strange source of comfort, even though the vulnerability of the spirits’ chosen mortal forms is impossible to deny. They are so small, slender bodies graceful within the water, but still no longer than her forearm. It does not occur to the princess that she, too, is of diminutive size. That her pale hair is not the only thing she has in common with the spirit that saved her life. 

Yue’s lips pucker into a frown as she dips her fingers distractedly into the water, the warmth of it always a pleasant shock given the surrounding walls of towering ice. Her intrusion disrupts the cyclic swimming of the spirits, they dart away on instinct before returning, the feel of their scales sliding against her hand beyond anything she has words for.

It would be blasphemous for anyone else to even wet their fingers with the water, but Yue is an extension of Tui, and La greets her in kind. She wonders momentarily what would happen if she were to shed her long dress-parka, her many layers of fur and wool, and slip into the water naked as the fish. Would she merely succeed in drenching herself, or would the moon spirit see this as an offering of herself, an act of surrendering the life it has loaned her? That’s what her existence is, after all. Borrowed.

Yue withdraws her hand, horrified at the bitterness that has accompanied the thought. She has always been grateful for the generosity of the spirits, for the opportunity to live. It is wrong to approach such a blessing as a burden. And yet…

She leans back, easing some of the pressure off her knees. Her momentary discontent is misplaced. It is not the moon’s fault that she sometimes feels as though her father doesn’t quite know who she is, outside of her title, her duty to the tribe. It is not the moon’s fault that she is betrothed to a young man whom she does not love, and does not imagine she can ever grow to love.

Her mind’s eye lingers on the vision of Hahn’s arrogantly handsome face, and distantly Yue wonders if he has survived the siege. If he was successful in slaying the Fire Nation admiral.

“Well, what do we have here?”

The voice is unfamiliar, and unkind. Yue startles, icy-blue eyes wide and white hair whipping back as she turns her head to stare at the intruder. She scrambles back against the dewy grass, a scream dying in her throat at the sight of not one Fire Nation soldier, but several. Leading them is a tall man with coarse sideburns, a cruel look of amusement etched into his face.

The skull-helmeted soldiers fan out offensively, their hands positioned to strike fire at a moment’s notice. Yue can feel the hammering of her heart in her ears, and is suddenly wretched with fear.

“I didn’t realize the Water Tribe was in the habit of keeping priestesses for their spirits,” the man says, his voice a pitiless growl despite the hint of curiosity in his words. “Out of the way, girl. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Yue stares at him, frozen.

His lip curling in disdain – perhaps at the stupidity or poor hearing of this inferior creature before him – Zhao stalks towards the pool of the Spirit Oasis, a coarse sack gripped in one fist. The sight of the sack seems to waken all of Yue’s comprehension, sick understanding crashing through her skull with enough force to jostle her voice free.

“ _No!_ ” she shouts, grasping desperately at the man’s cloak as he approaches the pool. He shoves her away, his palm heavy and hot against her shoulder. He barely seems to use any strength, and yet the force of his push sends the air out of Yue’s lungs. She blinks away the angry, burning tears that have started to build in her eyes, and when she opens them again this man, this _ashmaker,_ has dunked the sack into the pool and raised it up, the fabric pulsing with the frantic flopping of the moon spirit.

Full and round like the eye of a turtleseal, the moon suddenly becomes a red medallion in the sky. Everything is bathed crimson light, and Yue feels her throat tighten, her head ache. The wrongness of what has just happened – the sacrilege, the _violence_ – threatens to turn her stomach.

“I am a legend now,” the man is saying to himself, power-drunk madness glinting in his eyes, “The Fire Nation will, for generations, tell stories about the great Zhao who darkened the moon.”

Yue struggles to her feet, the name registering with horror. Zhao. _Admiral_ Zhao.

So Hahn failed in his mission, then.

She brings a hand to her mouth, swallowing down a sudden surge of bile. In all likelihood, her betrothed is dead. 

“They will call me Zhao the Conqueror,” the man continues, heedless of her, “Zhao the Moon-Slayer, Zhao the Invincible!”

The sound of his voice incites a rage in her that Yue didn’t know she possessed. She wishes she were a bender, that she had a knife, anything. He speaks theatrically, his arms raised in triumphant gesticulation, exposing the gap in armour at his underarm. Yue hauls back and pummels her small fist into the opening. He grunts, more in surprise at the interruption than in pain, and drops his arms. 

“Shut up!” Yue shrieks at him, drawing back her leg to kick him, but her blow is aborted by the back of the man’s hand connecting with her cheek. She staggers, once again reeling from the effortless force of his body. 

“Don’t bother, priestess,” he snarls at her, all trace of amusement gone. He glares at her murderously, angling his free fist at the weakly twitching sack. “It’s my destiny to destroy the moon and the Water Tribe. You simply get to bear witness.”

Yue’s hands have risen placatingly without her willing them to.

“Destroying the moon won’t just hurt the Water Tribe,” she tells him, “It will hurt everyone, including you.” It seems incredible that she should have to state this most obvious fact, and for a sliver of a second Yue’s hatred for the man transforms into pity. It must be an utterly empty existence, being so separate from the spirits.

“Without the moon, everything will fall out of balance,” she explains, “You have no idea what kind of chaos that would unleash upon the world.”

The man’s face betrays the barest fraction of doubt, the heavy arch of his brows and the hard lines around his mouth softening just so. Then another voice, rich and authoritative, rings out across the oasis.

“She is right, Zhao.”

An elderly man, almost as short as Yue, appears as though out of nowhere, a cloak obscuring his face. He, too, is Fire Nation, and Yue cannot help but feel even more dismay at his arrival, despite his support. What has become of her city that these invaders can so easily march into the Water Tribe’s most sacred space?

“General Iroh,” Zhao drawls, turning his attention to the newcomer, “Why am I not surprised to discovery your treachery?” He assumes an expression somewhere between mockery and genuine disappointment.

Iroh drops the hood back from his face, looking tired and grave.

“I’m no traitor, Zhao,” he says, and Yue cannot help but notice he does not address the admiral by title. Is it because they are friends, or is it an insult?

“The Fire Nation needs the moon, too. We all depend upon the balance.”

Zhao continues to glare, tightening the fist he has aimed at the sack in which Tui, amazingly, continues to struggle. The old general’s expression hardens, several grooves of disapproval furrowing his forehead, the corners of his mouth pulling back to reveal his teeth. There is something frightening about this rotund man when angered, and then Yue realizes why.

Iroh is Fire Lord Ozai’s brother. The Dragon of the West.

“Whatever you do to that spirit, I’ll unleash on you tenfold!”

Zhao’s fist erupts into flame, one half of his mouth lifting in an anticipatory grin. The soldiers around him bend their knees, widening their stances, ready to attack. Yue is forgotten in the midst of this, one girl among men and their warring senses of pride.

“Let it go, now!” roars Iroh, and for one desperate moment she hopes that Zhao will. That he will see reason, that the respect he evidently feels for the older man will be enough to persuade him.

His arm tenses, flames growing erratic, and she is shouting before she can even consider the words.

“Wait!”

The men turn their heads, Iroh expectant, Zhao impatient. Yue draws herself up, affects all the noble certainty and grace that she can, though she is still so very angry. Her eyes reflect the horrible red pall of the sky, and for a moment Iroh thinks he has stumbled upon an _oni_ wearing the skin of a Water Tribe girl. There is a ferocity, a righteous and unyielding decisiveness to her that puts him in mind of his brother despite her disparate size. 

“Take me instead!”

Zhao laughs, his derisive mirth at the offer genuine and oddly warm, as though he is indulging the whim of a child. Iroh’s gaze shifts from the girl to the admiral and back, comprehension slow but clear.

“And what, exactly, am I supposed to do with a mere Water Tribe priestess?” Zhao barks at her, the chuckle dying on his lips. Iroh opens his mouth to answer, but Yue beats him to it.

“I am no priestess, _admiral_ ,” she spits at him. “I am Princess Yue, daughter of Chief Arnook of the Northern Water Tribe. I bear the moon’s blessing,” she gestures to her hair, “and I offer myself in exchange for the spirit in your grasp.”

Zhao narrows his eyes, and to Yue’s immense relief, the fire surrounding his fist dies.

“Let the spirit go, Zhao,” Iroh repeats, daring to take a step forward. “Hear what she has to say.” 

The admiral leers at her, furious but attentive. “Well, _princess_? I’m listening. Tell me why you are a better prize than the moon.”

Yue swallows, worriedly glancing at the sack in his fist.

“You’ve already captured our city,” she tells him levelly, and the truth of it makes her heart ache. “You have accomplished what no one else in the Fire Nation has been able to do for almost a century. It would tarnish your victory to destroy the moon.”

Her admission of his success threatens to turn her stomach again, but she continues. “Besides, you came here by boat. Unless you plan on slaying the ocean spirit too, who can say what will happen to your men and your ships if you kill the moon? The Avatar is still free, can still take vengeance on you for your desecration.”

 _That_ seems to give Zhao pause, and at long last he drops his arm completely.

“Killing the moon might take away every waterbender’s bending, but my people are more useful to you if they are allowed to practice our craft. You have an army – we have healers. Your navy can join forces with our own. Agna Quel’a is the gate to the north, you can come and go through our waters, gain access to the top of the Earth Kingdom by water instead of having to march through untold miles of heavily defended territory.” 

She fixes Zhao with a glare of ominous promise.

“But if you kill the moon, my people will fight you every step of the way. Even without their bending.”

“And simply taking you hostage is assurance enough that they won’t resist? Your people must love you very much, princess.”

The admiral is condescending, but the question itself is not unreasonable. Yue blinks, has to remind herself to unclench her jaw even as her hands ball into fists. This, of course, is the true measure of her desperation.

“It won’t work if you keep me as a prisoner in a cell,” she admits unhappily, and Zhao raises one brow inquisitively. “It will be seen as just another subjugation. We need to be something other than enemies.”

Across the pool, she can hear Iroh shift uncomfortably on his feet. She does not know much of Fire Lord Ozai’s brother, beyond his own reputation as a powerful firebender and military figure, but there is something about the man’s spiritual knowledge that suggests he may know what she is alluding to. Zhao, as expected, does not.

“What do you propose?” he asks, his expression softening into something languid.

For a moment Yue falters, unable to find her voice as the reality of what she is about to say – must say – crashes down around her. It is revolting, a fate she wouldn’t wish on anyone. Zhao is an invader, and she hates him so intensely – from the smug curl of his lip to the cruel glint of his eyes to the stupid hair on either side of his face – that she almost cannot bring herself to speak the words. Not even for the sake of her people.

But then Tui writhes weakly in the sack, and Yue thinks of the alternative, of a night sky forever dark, and swallows her pride.

“Family is one of the strongest bonds that my people recognize. If we are bound to each other, then the Water Tribe will have no choice, they will follow your instruction through me.”

Zhao’s smug expression deepens into something scathing. It is, however, free of the disgust she had expected to see, and she does not know whether to be relieved or repulsed at his apparent acceptance of her offer. Iroh lets out a sigh of resignation, lowers his gaze.

“A marriage, then. That’s what you’re suggesting?” Zhao’s tone is serious, as though he is clarifying an important point he is worried he has misheard.

Yue stiffens, her lips a thin line, but nods her head. It is awful to hear it put so plainly.

She regards Zhao as he considers, his eyes sparking. Even drenched in the unnatural red of the sky, she can tell they are unlike any colour she has ever seen, dark and bright and warm all at once. One of her father’s men had returned from a mission to the Earth Kingdom several years ago, bearing with him a gift. It was a jar of something sweet and sticky, close in colour to the dun-gold of a coyotehawk’s fur. Honey, it had been called. That, she decides, is the colour of Zhao’s blazing, foreign eyes.

If she is going to bind herself to this man, she might as well start associating him with positive things now.

“Well,” Zhao says unpleasantly, drawing her out of her dour contemplation. “A man could certainly do worse than a princess.”

He bends one knee, letting the captured moon spirit fall gracelessly from the sack back into the pool with a _splash._ Yue lets out a gasp of relief – for herself, the pain in her head, her people, the spirit – and the sky returns to its normal hue as her shoulders sink.

He straightens, tossing aside the dampened sack and fixes her with a wolfish look.

“I accept your... _proposal_ , Princess Yue.” 


	2. Chapter 2

In war, mere seconds are decisive.

The time it takes for Zhao to redden the moon and for Yue to negotiate herself in the spirit’s stead is only a matter of minutes, but it is all the Fire Nation troops need to gain the advantage. Deprived of their bending, the Water Tribe’s warriors resort to the cruder weapons at hand – clubs and spears and blades – but they are quickly overrun. There are casualties, wet red stains and ash-black scorch marks in the snow, but fewer than there would have been had the fighting been allowed to continue. This will be seen as a strange mercy in the days to come, a sign of the moon’s benevolence even in weakness, but for the time being, there is only shouting, the gnashing of teeth. 

Chief Arnook knows, intuitively, that something has happened to his daughter when the crimson is bleached from the sky and the moon glows full and silver once more. He suspects in that moment that she has given her life, returned the spirit’s gift, and though it means the renewal of his people’s hope and their bending, it marks his loss as a father.

His thoughts race through the possibilities, unbidden images springing up in his mind’s eye of the Southern boy, Sokka, slain on the grass before his daughter’s feet. The chief cannot imagine him letting anything happen to Yue, and he despairs at the loss of such loyalty. He was foolish not to keep his daughter at his side, and now he is paying the price of her independence. 

Arnook’s bellow of grief echoes through the halls of the icy royal palace.

When he regains his composure, his mind redirects itself. The Avatar’s bison was seen rising into the sky shortly after the initial invasion. It is possible he has simply fled, fearing capture, but there is – Arnook believes – a far greater chance that he will return. This cannot happen. Agna Quel’a has fallen, and there will be no safe place for the Avatar and his companions if they attempt to help his people any further. Arnook’s duty is to the tribe, and an extension of this is preserving the Avatar’s safety.

He has failed too many people today. He refuses to lose any more life.

Perhaps one day the boy can come back and liberate them. Until then, they will have to survive. 

So the great chief grabs one of his guards – a young man named Tariuq – and hurries him and a team of reindeer-dogs out onto the tundra.

The blizzard has lessened, the cloven paws of his team move powerfully over the thick layer of snow, and before Tariuq knows it, he is gliding past the dizzying ridge that leads down to the Spirit Oasis. He peers carefully down the chasm, adjusting the tilt of his sled so it doesn’t veer towards the precipice, trusting the reindeer-dogs to feel their way around any potential fissure or crevasse while he looks away.

A quiet exclamation tears itself from his lips as he catches sight of the princess’s voluminous white hair down below. She lives! His chief need not despair…

And then Tariuq realizes that the princess is not alone. She is ringed by several skull-helmeted soldiers, and standing opposite her is a man he understands to be their leader. Another man, much older and shorter, stands awkwardly at the side.

The sound of his sled cutting through the snow drowns out most other sounds, and he is simply too far away to hear what they say to each other, but Tariuq knows the body language of the soldiers. They are not in position to attack, but to contain, protect. They are guarding something more precious than they could ever know, and he must snap his head away from the sight. Though she is not dead, the tribe is nonetheless in the midst of losing its princess – that much is clear. 

He scans the sky worriedly, and then, eventually, he spies a dark shape among the moon-lined clouds. The young guard sends out a loud blast through his whistle – soundless to human ears – and the shadowy bulk descends sharply, as though abruptly arrested midflight. The reindeer-dogs toss their heads, tongues lolling, breath steaming in the night. When the flying bison finds purchase on the snow, a trio of familiar faces peer over the creature’s massive saddle.

“Avatar Aang!” Tariuq calls up to them, “Sokka, Katara! You need to get away from here!”

“What do you mean?” the young monk asks, releasing the bison’s reins and sliding to the snow, a small zephyr cushioning his fall. “We’ve come back to help! I was told the spirits were in danger!”

Tariuq shakes his head.

“They were… but… there is nothing left to help,” he says grimly, “We were overpowered. The Fire Nation has taken the North Pole.”

The boy’s wide grey eyes glisten in dismay, and still seated on the bison, Katara shouts “No!”. Sokka’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He stares at the guard, then looks away, brows pinching as his eyes grow distant in horrified rumination.

“And Princess Yue..?” the Water Tribe boy’s voice is barely a whisper, heavy with both worry and guilt. Tariuq lets out a conflicted sigh, scuffing his thick mukluk in the crisp snow.

“She is alive,” he says, figuring it best to start with good news, “but I believe she has made a deal for the sake of the tribe.” The Avatar and his companions stare at him uncomprehendingly – he has to remind himself that they are barely out of childhood, that they do not automatically understand these things – and so the guard continues.

“I saw her in the custody of the Fire Nation admiral. It may be that she has offered herself up as a prisoner. Another man was there that I did not recognize, old, short, in military uniform.”

There is a strangled sound, an unfamiliar voice crying out from the back of the flying bison’s saddle, and then a fourth youth struggles into view. He is unmistakably Fire Nation, his thick black hair pulled into a horsetail, the rest of his head shaved. Bruises and cuts adorn his face, as does a horrible, puckered scar across one golden eye.

“Uncle,” he cries, “That man you saw is my uncle! Was he alright?”

This earnest outburst draws Sokka’s attention, and he shoves the other boy back, raising his fist threateningly.

“Shut up!” he snarls, “Nobody cares about your stupid uncle! All you people _do_ is destroy!”

The Fire Nation boy’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping as though to protest, but then Sokka’s fist lands on his face and he gives a loud _umnf!_ Katara pulls her brother off him with a disapproving scold. Tariuq watches a shadow pass over the young Avatar’s face – anger, disappointment, woe – and then it melts into abject misery as his friend suddenly wails like the child he still, _almost_ , is.

“I should’ve… I should’ve _been_ there! You didn’t need me to catch Zuko – neither of you need me, you’re too strong! But I could’ve… if I had been with Yue… _It’s all my fault!_ ”

Contrary to Tariuq’s assumption, Sokka has, in fact, made the mental leap of Yue sacrificing herself for the sake of the tribe. And his is a vividly imaginative mind.

He recalls every encounter they’ve had with Zhao, a tall and imposing man with far too much anger and impulse, and feels sick to his stomach. He imagines fire-hardened hands around Yue’s neck, tries very hard _not_ to imagine Zhao’s hands elsewhere, shoving the princess to the ground, the fur-trimmed hem of her dress-parka rising slowly up her legs. That they have reassurance Yue is alive is, for Sokka, meager comfort. Who knows what cruelty she could be enduring in that very moment, the deplorable lows that Zhao might sink to? Dead is dead, but at least it is untouchable. 

Beside him, Katara reaches out a steadying and comforting hand. Her face is heavy.

“No, Sokka,” she says, and there is such compassion to his sister’s voice that the tears welling in his eyes cannot help but fall. “It’s not your fault.”

The Avatar looks down at his feet, shame-faced.

“Katara is right, it’s _my_ fault. How couldn’t I have realized that the spirits were the koi fish? We... we could have just _asked_! We didn’t need to leave, and now Yue is…” Aang thinks of his own experience with Zhao, chained and taunted in Pohuai, and forbids himself from putting words to it. He finishes euphemistically. 

“It’s my fault Yue is gone.” 

Katara twists from where she has folded her brother in an embrace atop Appa.

“No, Aang! It’s not your fault either, you couldn’t have known!”

Tariuq shifts where he stands, looking nervously over his shoulder. Their shouting is not likely to carry far enough to be heard, but he has no idea how far or how fast the Fire Nation’s war beasts, the komodo-rhinos, can traverse snow. They need to get moving, and soon.

“If anyone should take the blame, it’s me,” the girl continues, her blue eyes somber and blazing with self-chastisement. “ _I_ let Zuko get away with you.”

“Blame _him_ , then,” Tariuq interrupts, unwilling to let them rend themselves over this any further. The people of the Water Tribe are spiritual, but they are also supposed to be pragmatic. He sees no reason for them to continue passing around guilt like a thing they are entitled to. Act, or do not, and accept what happens either way. “Whoever’s fault it is, it does not change what has happened. Agna Quel’a is no longer safe for you, and if the Avatar has any hope of completing his mission, he needs to get far away from here.”

The guard reaches into his sled, pulling out a leather satchel and thrusts it into Aang’s arms.

“Food,” he says, “and gifts from Chief Arnook and Master Pakku. Things to help you on your journey.”

There is a vial of sacred water nestled in the satchel, and a scroll of waterbending forms. Tariuq wishes there could be more, but there was so little time. He presses the Avatar’s shoulder, and implores him,

“Go. Do not let our princess’s sacrifice be in vain.”

He watches the bison rise into the night sky, and then they are gone. 

* * *

“It is a wise match,” General Iroh says unconvincingly, the paleness of his face speaking far more to the truth than his words. His eyes keep drifting over to Yue, who stands very still, looking as though she doesn’t quite believe what has just transpired. Her bottom lip quivers, ever-so-slightly, but somehow she remains otherwise composed. 

“Fire and water, an alliance of two great nations – ”

“Oh, do be quiet,” Zhao snaps at him, “I’m placing you under arrest for treason. No doubt the Fire Lord will be very interested to hear how you openly interfered with my siege, and threatened the life of a fellow commanding officer.”

The skull-helmeted soldiers move to subdue Iroh, but he waves his hand dismissively before pointing at Zhao’s chest.

“And I think the Fire Lord will be even more interested to learn the identity of the man who tried to have his son killed by pirates!”

This draws Zhao up, his face contorting in sour rage. He has his own convictions about the Fire Lord’s concern for Prince Zuko, of course, but even so, word of attempted regicide would be poor accompaniment to news of his success as conqueror of the north. A spray of errant sparks spew from his knuckles, sending the grass before him to smolder. The admiral scowls, stamping on the singed greenery to put it out.

“Very well then,” he grumbles, “return to the Fire Nation with me as a guest, if you must.”

Iroh folds his hands within his sleeves and bows his head deeply.

“It would be my honour to accompany you and – ” his pause is unmistakable and awkward, the avoidance of the words _your_ and _bride_ too obvious, “—the princess.” 

The old general nods his head and smiles gently, congenially, at Yue, though she catches the familiar glint of pity in his eyes. She returns the gesture as propriety dictates, demurely bobbing her own head in acknowledgement. Everything about him seems innocuous now that he is not defending the Moon Spirit from destruction, and Yue wants desperately to trust him, but she does not want his pity. She has made a decision – a life-altering, history-writing decision – that impacts not only her but all of her people. And, for perhaps the very first time in her young life, she has made this decision alone. She does want to regret it, to be made to feel as though she ought to regret it, and pity will do only that. 

Yue glances back at the admiral, finds that his eyes have not left her this entire time. Iroh clears his throat, seemingly determined to steer them away from stretches of silence.

“It has been a long night, for everyone,” he begins, and Yue suddenly feels every ounce of truth in the statement. She is exhausted, her jaw hurts from clenching, and she wants nothing more than to crawl into the comforting furs and pelts of her bed and cry. “But there is much yet to be done.”

“We should tell my father of our arrangement,” she adds to Iroh’s statement, “put an end to the fighting as quickly as possible. For the sake of my people, and yours.”

Zhao’s mouth twists into a smile.

“Isn’t the point that they’re both _our_ people, now?” 

She shifts beneath Zhao’s gaze, suddenly finding the heat of his scrutiny unbearable. Her cheeks are warm, her palms uncomfortably rimed with sweat. It feels as though he might be undressing her with his eyes, peeling back even layers of her skin to expose the muscle and veins beneath. A horrible, _horrible_ , thought occurs to her – that as her husband he _will_ one day undress her, with his large hands and snarling mouth – and she finally breaks, closing her eyes and turning away.

In the momentary respite offered by the dark of her eyelids, she tells herself that this is no different, really, than her betrothal to Hahn. He was more of a boy than a man, perhaps, and so at least was closer in age to her than the admiral, but she did not love him. Their compact was supposed to strengthen bonds between the tribe, to show unity during a time of war. She had never been given a say in it, and though she doubts Hahn experienced quite the same sense of helplessness, she knows the decision was equally out of his hands.

The element of choice in this case does not feel like much of a choice at all.

She chains herself to Zhao, or the moon – the spirit which breathed life into her – dies and the world is thrown into unimaginable darkness.

She has offered herself up out of duty, not just to the Water Tribe, but the entire world. It is as simple as that.

Unthinking, Yue’s hand creeps up to clasp the heavy ornate necklace at her throat.

Zhao watches the girl’s hand rise to her neck, catches sight of the pearlescent stone hanging from the thick ribbon. When she opens her eyes again, she returns his gaze coolly, and there is something about this display of defiant courage that simultaneously demands his respect and his scorn. He smirks at her, stretching out his hand, palm up. The gesture is unmistakable.

The Fire Nation has been raiding and decimating Water Tribe populations since before Zhao was born. They might have little use for the people from the poles, but he knows a betrothal necklace when he sees one. They were something of a talking point amongst some of the sailors he served under, _bride leashes_ , as one former Southern Raider called them.

“Given our… engagement… it hardly seems appropriate for you to be wearing another man’s bauble, now does it?”

Frankly, Zhao finds it a little distasteful that the girl is already wearing such a thing, nevermind its implications towards their own strange and sudden relationship. She is so young – despite her silver-white hair, he suspects she cannot yet be twenty – and it only serves to reinforce his conviction of Fire Nation superiority. In _his_ country, they do not force their daughters to parade about, branded for all to see.

He curls his fingers in a motion of impatient insistence, watching as the girl’s startlingly light blue eyes flicker from his hand and then back to his face.

Yue purses her lips, then nods once in concession. She reaches behind her, undoing the clasp on the ribbon and morosely drops the necklace into Zhao’s waiting palm. The abrupt lack of weight against her throat comes as a welcome surprise, like a yoke she did not know she had been wearing has suddenly been lifted. It feels like freedom.

Or it does, until Zhao closes his fingers over the necklace with visible aggression, as though he might try to crush it. An aspect of concern flits across her face – and how can it not? Though her feelings about Hahn were complex, he had spent many hours carving the necklace for her. It is a powerful symbol of her culture, and she has worn it for many months now.

Zhao gauges the girl’s reaction, trying to decipher her response. Is the worry in her raised brows caused by genuine misery over his usurpation of her previous betrothed, or is she vexed by the loss of a pretty jewel? She might be easier to control if the latter, but he rankles at the thought of binding himself to a vapid, materialistic girl.

Truth be told, he rankles at the thought of being bound to her at all, even for the sake of conquest. It too closely resembles the story of his own parents’ union.

The cool weight of the stone is oddly soothing against his burning palm, and Zhao clenches it once more in his fist before thrusting the necklace into a pocket. He’s inheriting a pet, he decides, rather than a wife. It is not an adoption – he refuses to think of the princess as something _quite_ so childlike, despite her youth – but it is equally impossible for him to look at her willowy frame and think of her as a woman, an equal. 

Still. She is the key to the north, and she’s _his,_ now, in whatever capacity he needs her to be. All he has to do is compromise, bend a little to Water Tribe custom, and then history will know him as the admiral who took Agna Quel’a in less than a day.

Zhao eyes the girl’s slender, exposed neck.

“Don’t worry, princess,” he sneers at her, “I’ll make you a new one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've once again fallen into the trap of writing several thousand words in which nothing actually happens. Ah well.  
> Substantial inspiration for the Gaang's dialogue was taken from ainefelai's recent tumblr [post](https://ainefelai.tumblr.com/post/638229029614501888/these-had-been-in-my-wips-for-a-week-but-i-loved/), as indeed, the entire fic is based off her wonderful captive!Yue and captive!Zhao AUs. 
> 
> If you haven't yet, consider also giving WenchicusThoticus's fic [The Chain ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28099335) a look, as it too exists in the captive! universe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though it is alluded to, vaguely, I figured it important to mention explicitly that Yue is 19 in this AU. Zhao's still a rough-looking 42 in my mind, so it's definitely an uncomfortable age gap, but marginally better than if she were 16 as she is in the show. By virtue of that, I also peg all the members of the Gaang as at least one year older than in canon, too.

A hush falls over the city when five firebending guards emerge from the Spirit Oasis, General Iroh and Admiral Zhao following close behind, Princess Yue’s arm encircled by the latter man’s fingers. They come out to find Fire Nation soldiers in the midst of rounding up Water Tribe warriors and civilians with all the brutal efficiency of a military used to conquest. Yue holds her head high, despite struggling to keep up with the admiral’s uncompromisingly long and powerful strides. Her people cannot see her as some vanquished girl, she needs to affect confidence, strength in this decision.

It is a hard thing to do when Zhao’s hand – however unintentionally – keeps threatening to brush against the side of her breast.

Yue holds her arm out at an angle, wishing that he would just let her go. It is an insult to her resolve to treat her as though she might run away at any moment. Then again, she supposes, looking at his face, he must not be used to women willingly staying in his presence. 

As they make their way toward the plaza of the palace, ash trickles down on them like black snow, dirtying the once pristine streets of sculpted ice. Yue watches as the smoky flakes and specs land and do not melt, are not absorbed but rather, remain, a myriad tiny bruises against white. This is the way of things with the Fire Nation. They come, they stay, they sully. She only hopes that with her intercession, the bruising can be made painless.

A few of her people bravely attempt to pry her away, blue-sleeved arms reaching through ranks of skull-helmeted soldiers and scowling sailors, but she shakes her head, makes a small motion with her hand that all understand to mean _no, leave me._ She is with the conquerors voluntarily. Once they catch sight of the nakedness of her neck, they still, understanding.

When at last they arrive at the plaza, her father and the elders have already been summoned. Yue moves instinctively towards her father, but Zhao jerks her back. Arnook’s face darkens, rage and anguish rolling off him almost palpably. Beside him, Master Pakku wipes a stream of blood from his nose, delivering an inscrutable look at Iroh. The general fidgets with something – Yue catches a glimpse of what looks like a small disc between his fingers – and then his hands disappear back into the folds of his robe.

“Chief Arnook,” Zhao says, and Yue is surprised to find his voice not entirely dripping with self-satisfaction. If anything, he is appropriately reverent. “I am Admiral Zhao. It is an honour to stand before the man who has so valiantly resisted us, but your days of hiding behind a wall of ice are over. Your city – indeed, all of the North Pole – is now under control of the Fire Nation.”

Iroh’s eyes slide to the man beside him, one eyebrow lifted. It is a rare display of composure, of course, but also Zhao’s excellent – if often underutilized – grasp of military philosophy. There is no need to degrade the vanquished, rather, treat them with dignity and they may come to accept their domination. It is in Zhao’s nature to gloat, Iroh knows, so the fact that he does not means he has finally learned what is and isn’t advantageous behaviour. Some of those promotions may have been earned honestly, after all.

The old general runs his tongue against his teeth, furrowing his brow as it occurs to him that, were Zhao’s unreasonable temper not constantly at odds with his intellect over the years, the man would be a thousand times more dangerous as a soldier. _Thank Agni for rage,_ he thinks, perhaps for the first time in his life. 

Zhao tugs Yue to stand before him, moving his hands to her shoulders, smoothing down the white fur lining her collar so that her father and all the elders can see Hahn’s betrothal necklace no longer circles her throat.

There is a sharp, collective intake of breath. Yue feels a blush rise to her cheeks, as though it were not her neck that the admiral exposed, but some other, more intimate part of her body.

“I would have taken the moon, too,” Zhao continues, “but your daughter made a compelling argument for a different sort of arrangement. I shall be taking the place of her previous suitor, and will return to the Fire Nation with her at my side. No doubt she will provide valuable insight into the new governance of your tribe.”

Arnook listens to the other man’s words, hears every intonation, but his eyes are fixed on his daughter, held like a white hamster in the claws of a snowy owlcat. His heart pounds against his chest, and as he stares at Yue – overcome with mixed joy at her survival and horror at her circumstance – he realizes he is also impossibly proud of her. His brave, beautiful girl has not squandered the spirit’s gift, nor has she discounted the duty that partners such privilege. It does not lessen the rage he feels towards the ashmaker admiral, does not soften the blow of consequence or defeat, but there it is.

He has raised her to comport herself as queen, and today she has done so irrevocably.

A small, selfish part of him wonders if he had done otherwise – had raised Yue without a sense of service – then maybe he wouldn’t have to lose her.

The chief grits his teeth, nods his head. He resists the urge to ask about Sokka, whether Zhao cut the boy down as he defended Yue, or if he cowered before the firebenders and abandoned her. It is difficult to imagine that the boy from the south could possibly have allowed Yue to offer herself up as a prize, but then, that sort of loyalty and love are exactly the kind of thing to get young men killed. Arnook will have to carry that weight just as he will the loss of his daughter. 

Beside him, one of the elders spits onto the snow.

“Disgraceful!” he growls, bone and ivory adornments in his hair and beard clinking as he tosses his head in agitation. “Great Chief, I beg you, do not let your daughter play us directly into these foreigners’ hands. To allow this man to marry into the tribe and its leadership is folly! Disown her, banish her, that way their bond need not be recognized and this posturing searaven can have no claim to us.”

Several of the elders join in, grunting and nodding their approval, despite the obvious fact that whether the Fire Nation’s meddling with their people is through recognized channels or not, it _will_ happen.

Yue stiffens within Zhao’s grasp, his hands clawing into her shoulders at the elders’ dissent. For a moment her father seems to consider, tilting his head to listen to the elder’s words, and the princess’s veins feel like they have been flushed with freezing seawater. She’s worthless to the admiral outside of a political alliance – as good as dead – and without a more enticing alternative there is nothing to stop him from storming back into the Spirit Oasis to slay the moon. She knows from the pressure of his fingers digging into her that he shares the same thought. 

How can these old men be such fools, Yue wonders in disgust. How can they gamble the balance of the world for their own sense of pride? She has done away with all personal grandeur, has lowered herself to something unimaginable, little better than a whore to keep invaders from performing greater acts of rape against her people. Do they think she has done this for herself, out of some inflated sense of importance?

“You _dare?_ ” Arnook shouts, his eyes flashing dangerously as he twists around to grab the scoffing elder by the many tails trimming the collar of his atigi. “My daughter is more brave, more dutiful, in offering herself up – for the sake of the moon, the sake of the tribe – than you will ever be in your life!” 

“Cowards!” Master Pakku continues the admonishment, his lip curling to reveal crooked teeth. “You would rather we be annihilated? Or is it simply that you cannot bear knowing you owe this girl your lives?”

“ _Enough!_ ” Zhao barks, his voice loud in Yue’s ears and his body suddenly radiating a burst of heat that summons beads of sweat to the back of her neck. Arnook shoves the elder away from him, all of them falling silent.

“You do yourselves and your princess a disservice with this behaviour,” he chastises them, now unable to hide the gloating smirk from his lips. So uncivilized. “And after she was _so_ obliging, too. I would have thought your people would be more willing to celebrate a betrothal than a funeral.” 

Yue fumes in his grasp, wanting to jerk away, to level her own rebukes against the elders, but almost two decades of Water Tribe etiquette have taught her to be silent, and her tongue – though it burns with vinegar – is heavy in the cradle of her mouth. No one will listen if she speaks, anyway. Not the men of her tribe, at least. 

The whole thing is uncomfortable. She is being debated over like a possession, like a piece of tigerseal meat between polar bear dogs, as though her thoughts and feelings don’t matter. As though this was not her choice, her commitment. Why is it always men telling her what she must do or be? How can they pity her and revile her decision in the same breath? Why is it the Fire Nation admiral who has taken her more seriously than anyone? 

“Will you stay?” her father eventually asks Zhao, his voice strained. He does not want the admiral anywhere near his city, of course, nor any of the firebenders, but if Zhao stays, then so does his daughter.

“Preparations for a wedding will take some time…”

“No need,” Zhao cuts in. “I have accepted the princess’s offer, and we will be returning to the Fire Nation immediately. It seems fitting to complete the contract in the custom of my people, even if it begins according to yours.”

Beside him, Iroh finally opens his mouth and makes protest.

“Immediately, Zhao?” he asks, incredulous. “Give yourself a night here, I beg you. It is late, and we are all tired. Let the girl spend one last night with her family, at least.”

The admiral narrows his eyes, but he relents. At last, his heavy hands lift from Yue’s shoulders and she continues her long-interrupted journey towards her father, crashing into his waiting arms, both of them letting out a relieved sob. Arnook reaches up to stroke her hair, glancing over her head at Zhao with grudging gratitude for this small mercy.

Zhao’s face curdles.

“By tomorrow my mark will hang from her neck,” he asserts, “and then we depart.”

He turns to leave, then pauses, looking threateningly over his shoulder at where the girl is pressed against Arnook’s chest.

“I intend to act with all the honour of my nation, Great Chief, but if word reaches me of any resistance to our rule over your people, I promise you, she will not find me a pleasant husband.” 

Yue squeezes her eyes closed and burrows deeper into her father’s parka, thinking ruefully of the elders’ earlier outburst.

There is the sound of snow crunching underfoot, and then the admiral and the general are gone.

She knows better than to even contemplate running. 

* * *

Zhao returns to his ship with purpose in every step. General Iroh hurries beside him, the older man’s shorter legs having to saw back and forth twice for every one of the admiral’s strides.

“I must admit, I am surprised,” Iroh chirps as they walk, “you act as though you are unhappy, Zhao. Your siege was a great success, and what’s more, it was accomplished with minimal loss of life – on both sides! That is the sign of strategic excellence.”

The admiral offers only a dour grunt in response. Not that there had been anything about that which he could actually lay claim as his own. If anything, it was the girl’s victory more so than his.

Iroh flounders for a moment, tries to find other things to be pleased about. After hearing Zhao’s threat, his mission now seems to be to keep the other man in as good of humour as possible. Soften him, if he can.

“And the princess is most striking, is she not?” he tries again, resorting to a universal positive. “It is a rare thing, to be blessed by a spirit. The whole Fire Nation will remark upon the beauty of your br—”

“She is _young,_ General Iroh,” Zhao finally grates out, and the last word dies in the older man’s mouth. Unthinking, Zhao’s hand creeps into his pocket to clench and palm hatefully at the girl’s first betrothal necklace. He’ll complete the necessary step of having the Water Tribe recognize him, but he won’t be marrying her once they reach the Fire Nation, he decides suddenly. Not if he can help it. 

She’s a pawn, something he’ll need to keep comfortable in order to be useful, but little more. It would be beyond foolish for either of them to expect – or hope – that their relationship would contain anything like affection or sentiment.

Iroh might be able to see only the girl’s beauty, but Zhao feels like a lecher every time her form or face spring to mind. And he doubts his is the only inner voice that will make such pronouncements. He’ll die before admitting it, least of all to Iroh, but agreeing to bind himself to Princess Yue is likely to be the steepest price he’s ever paid in the name of duty.

It’s not just her age. Much as this arrangement will define his career – his union with the girl signifies his conquering of the Northern Water Tribe – there remains the fact that she is of an other, lesser culture. He doesn’t even think she can bend. 

Beside him, the old general strokes his beard thoughtfully.

“Such gaps are not as uncommon up here as you might think,” he advises in all seriousness. “Marrying age for many girls is sixteen – which is several years younger than the princess – and often families prefer the prospect of an experienced man who can hunt and provide for their daughter, rather than a boy with little proof of his own competency.”

Zhao thinks of the young Water Tribe man he tossed overboard at the beginning of the siege, the recollection lifting the corners of his mouth. Age has its advantages sometimes, he supposes.

He pauses before the gangplank of his ship, unaware that he has resorted to an old habit of chewing his bottom lip. He withdraws the betrothal necklace, holding it up so that Iroh can see it in the warm light pooling out of the opening in the hull.

“This needs to be done right,” Zhao says seriously. “I don’t want there to be any misinterpretations or loopholes that they can exploit. What do you know about the practice of giving betrothal necklaces?” 

In the soft glow of ship-light, the general looks contemplative, and very tired, the bags beneath his eyes substantial. Not for the first time, Zhao wonders what happened to the army commander he so idolized in his youth, the fearsome and unyielding Dragon of the West. Ba Sing Se _changed_ Iroh in a way that no battle – whether on land or at sea – has managed to touch Zhao.

Iroh coughs politely into one of his sleeves before nodding in the direction of the necklace. “The tradition is flexible, from what I understand. Some families favour certain shapes and symbols, and others pass down the necklaces as heirlooms, rather than necessarily having their sons carve a new one with each engagement. The important part, regardless, is that it is personal, has some significance to both the one giving it and the one wearing it.”

Zhao draws his hand back to regard the necklace once again. There is something ostentatious about it – perhaps its size? – but the repeating pattern of circles is pleasing, calls to mind ripples in a pool. The boy who made it clearly put some thought into it. Zhao wonders where he is now, how he will respond to the news that his precious bride-to-be has been stolen from him. He wonders if the princess is heartbroken, despite the apparent ease with which she offered herself up. He’s found her surprisingly hard to read.

Beside him, Iroh shifts wearily, and Zhao clears his throat, tucking the necklace back into his pocket. He thanks the general for his counsel stiffly, asks him to instruct the sailors to set him up with a cabin. Iroh gives a little bow of appreciation for the hospitality, then trudges up the gangplank. Zhao gives himself a minute, listening to the lap of northern waters against the hull of his ship, the echoing shouts and cries as his soldiers continue their work of rounding up and securing the people of Agna Quel’a for the night. He takes in a deep breath of the frosty air, spiced with the smell of smoke, then boards his ship. 

First he visits the engine room, gathers a handful of chemical ash, metal filings, and salt into a leather pouch, then advises the quartermaster that he is not to be disturbed unless there is a dire emergency. The man salutes, and Zhao retreats to his cabin. He pours himself a glass of baijiu from the small bottle he keeps in the cupboard next to his bunk, knocks it back, then strips off his armor, then his layers of uniform, and settles in for a long night.

It’s an ancient practice, handforging, and something that Zhao is lucky to know how to do at all. His grandfather, a staunch traditionalist and scholar, had insisted on him learning it as a boy, though Zhao had little need to practice it since then. He'd crafted things for his mother and sister many years ago, and once, early in his military career, a pair of shackles for a prisoner – though it was such a rush job that the man’s hands would forever be scarred. 

This is different. More significant, even if it is only symbolic.

Zhao settles cross-legged on the floor, closes his eyes, steadies his breathing, and redirects all his focus, all his inner fire, into the palms of his hands. A lesser man, one lacking not just technique but restraint, would have scorched the very flesh of his fingers from the bone. Zhao isn’t known for his self-control, but in the arena of his grandfather’s teachings, his discipline is paramount. It's a sign of respect for the old man. 

He thinks of the princess, the ferocity in her eyes reflecting the red of the corrupted moon. He thinks of pride, of duty, victory and sacrifice. All the while, a fire so hot it is almost white roars quietly in his hands. 

The admiral emerges from his cabin the next morning, strands of hair loosened from his topknot with the weight of sweat, his whole body covered in a glistening sheen. The shadows beneath his eyes speak to his tiredness, but there is a spark in his gaze that shows just how pleased he is with his work. The new medallion clenched in his fist glows faintly, a subtle flame-like iridescence resulting from the mixture of minerals and metals he combined in the final stage of his forging. Emblazoned in the centre is the immediately recognizable insignia of his nation.

At first glance, and from a bit of a distance, it looks just like any other Fire Nation cloak brooch. It’s not a thing to draw attention. But there are intricacies, abstruse details that can only be noticed up close. Like a series of secrets only he knows will hang from the girl’s neck. Zhao mentally challenges any Water Tribe boy or man to do as good of a job with their whittling. 

The princess is summoned and escorted from her family home shortly after dawn. Yue leaves with only the clothes on her back – part tradition, part because she is forbidden by the soldiers from bringing anything with her. Arnook smooths her hair, kisses her forehead, whispers blessings even as she is marched away.

His daughter is spirit-blessed, he tells himself. That is enough – _has_ to be enough.

When she arrives at Zhao’s ship, her eyes are swollen with the telltale sign of tears and darkened by sleepless shadows to rival his own. For a moment they regard each other with the strange human courtesy and recognition of exhaustion. Neither wants to be there, under those circumstances, but they must, and so they are.

Then he moves behind her, and she stiffens, a very small sound slipping past her lips that only his ears will hear. His arms descend on either side of her, drawing in close at her neck, and then there is a warm weight at her throat, a new yet familiar heaviness. Zhao fumbles for a moment, suddenly losing decades of seafaring knowledge, all thoughts of knots blasted from his mind as the reality of what is happening settles in. This, not the siege of the previous evening, is his ultimate conquering of the Northern Water Tribe.

The girl’s hair smells of fresh snow.

His fingers remember what he cannot, and he draws back, the ribbon secure and the deed done.

“There,” he declares, and Yue cannot decipher his tone. “You are mine now.”

 _As you are mine_ , she thinks, determined to keep as much control as she possibly can.

Almost as an afterthought, Zhao reaches into his pocket and pulls out her first betrothal necklace. He rolls the smooth stone over his knuckles like a coin, then hauls back and launches the thing into the sea. 

It hits the water with a soft splash, the morning sun catching the iridescent stone once in a muted sparkle, before sinking into the cold water. Good riddance, he thinks, savouring the crimson glow of his replacement around the princess’s neck. Then, perhaps rather cruelly, he clasps his hands behind his back and says,

“I’m surprised. One would have thought the Northern Water Tribe would know how to make things that float.”

Yue acknowledges the barb with a slow blink, the expression on her face sour, but controlled. Zhao smirks in return, wondering — not for the first time — if she actually had any feelings for the boy who had been her first betrothed.

He tries not to trouble himself with wondering whether she’ll have any for the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, credit for most of this AU belongs to the inimitable [ainefelai](https://ainefelai.tumblr.com/), who has continued to expand upon the captive!Yue and captive!Zhao universe on tumblr. 
> 
> And, wonders never cease, the magnificent [MonochromeSwirl](https://monochrome-swirl.tumblr.com/post/638431794217320448/fried-fish-anyone-thought-id-join-in-on-the/) crafted some truly beautiful artwork for the pivotal scene in Chapter 2. Please do go give these gems of human beings some appreciation!


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